


Wrath

by themus



Series: 7 Deadly Sins [1]
Category: The OC
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen, Heavy Angst, Running Away, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-05
Updated: 2007-07-05
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themus/pseuds/themus
Summary: Seth never stopped Ryan from running away at the beginning of 102 The Model Home.





	Wrath

**WRATH:**

 

_strong, stern, or fierce anger; deeply resentful indignation; ire._

 

 

 

The first punch takes the kid by surprise, catching him right in the mouth. Two more, landed in the same place in quick succession, spin him and knock him sideways and he barely manages to keep from falling on his face, putting out a hand to save himself just as Luke launches himself at his back. Already off-balance, he goes down too easily, folding underneath Luke's weight with a heavy grunt as the air is forced out of him.  
  
Rage is a red curtain, framing the world.  
  
Two days the punk's been in town and he's already ruined everything that Luke's worked so hard to build, just because he had to pick Marissa to try his bad boy act out on. Just because Marissa had to pick the bitch to be her poster boy for the Screw Luke Over campaign.  
  
Luke almost couldn't believe his luck when he saw him standing at the side of the highway.  
  
His punches are landing hard and fast now, to the kidneys, the spine, the back of the neck. And all Luke can think about is Marissa. _  
  
Marissa winking at the kid across a crowded room._ __  
  
Marissa slamming her glass down in a heaving restaurant.  
  
Marissa storming out of a busy café.

  
Even with his breath gone the kid bucks Luke off of him, getting onto his feet with surprising speed and laying a hefty right hook to Luke's jaw. Luke kicks out as he falls back again, catching the kid's legs and this time _he's_ on his feet first.

_Marissa yelling at him in front of the punk._

_Marissa sniping at him in front of strangers._

_Marissa scolding him in front of his friends._

The first kick drives the punk to his knees, gasping for air, a hand pressed to his stomach. The second flips him over onto his back, head hitting a rock or a tree branch or something with a sharp crack.

And then he goes still. Horribly, horribly still.

Luke steps back, anger fading, replaced by a churning nervousness in his chest. Maybe he went too far. He didn't want to really hurt the kid, not badly, just mess him up enough to make the lesson stick: stay away from Marissa. She's been nothing but argumentative since the kid sauntered into Newport with his sob story. It's been 'you don't understand' and 'stop judging him' and 'maybe this isn't working out'. And dammit, he _loves_ her. And he's not going to lose her over this trailer park prick.

But the kid isn't moving. Like, not at all.

Maybe he's playing possum, Luke considers; that might be his style, but it's practically impossible to tell in the pitch black of overclouded night with only the dim halo of the truck's headlamps. The sound of the motor idling and the harsh chorus of insects rule out any chances of listening to the kid's breathing.

Luke takes half a pace forward, then stops suddenly, rocking back on his foot. If he killed the kid, maybe it's better he doesn't know; that gives him deniability, right? But if the kid needs a hospital, and Luke leaves him here . . . He tries to tell himself that it's sensible not to blindly walk up to a kid from the ghetto. Who knows if he might have a knife on him, or a gun or some shit? It's not because he's scared.

Luke has never, for one minute of his life, been scared.

“Hey,” Luke half-whispers, “guy.”

Silence and then a short movement, weight scraping across sand and loose stones.

“Are you done?” the kid growls. It's obvious he's still out of breath the way the words come out – tight and forced.

A light breeze springs up for a moment, twitching Luke's hair away from his face and ruffling the unbuttoned sleeves of his shirt. He steps forward and sideways where he can see better in the minimal cast-off light.

The kid is still, quiet except for jerking pained gasps that Luke can hear now, up close. His head has lolled to the side as if he lacks the energy to keep it upright and a jagged rock behind him glistens wetly. Blood. It looks like oil in the darkness – a thick black gunk, like in the footage you see in documentaries sometimes. But blood doesn't really _mean_ anything. And the kid's still conscious, isn't he? He has to be okay.

As if to prove the point, the kid shifts again, planting a hand on the ground beside him and shoving himself up into an awkward sitting position.

On sudden impulse, Luke reaches a hand down to help him up but the kid just dispatches a chilling glare in Luke's direction and struggles on his own to regain his feet.

“You'll get the hell out of Newport if you know what's good for you,” Luke tells him.

“What the hell did you think I was doing?” the kid snaps back.

Luke shoves his hands in his pockets, actually feeling kind of dumb. The truth is that he didn't stop to think when he saw the kid. Marissa just basically broke up with him, over this orphan from the wrong side of the tracks, and then there he was – in the middle of the night, on an empty highway, with no witnesses.

And all thinking stopped long before Luke slammed on the brakes.

Now that the point's been raised, it's pretty damn obvious what the kid is doing out here. But why the hell would he be running away, just when he's got everything set, when he has everyone in Newport pandering to his needs?

He doesn't care, Luke reminds himself before he expresses his thoughts out loud. He's getting what he wants. He doesn't care about this annoyance, the thorn in his side, this kid who – somehow – makes him feel inadequate.

Luke grasps the fleeting anger. He's not going to fall for this kid's brainwashing. Not like Marissa or the Cohens. No way.

He reaches down and hooks up the kid's backpack, knocking his hand away when he tries to grab for it. Luke feels a jolt of regret again at the look of sudden panic on the kid's face. It's replaced quickly enough by guarded anger, like a steel door slamming shut, the jaw locked hard, so Luke pushes the regret away.

“Get in the truck,” he explains, opening the passenger door and tossing the bag into the footwell. He tells himself he's not satisfied when it lands with a soft thump and no sound of breakages.

Luke turns back just in time to catch the edge of a derisive sneer.

“You want me to take a ride with you? Bodies in the trunk doesn't seem like your style."

“I'm taking you to the bus station.”

The sneer remains for a moment longer. “You're _helping_ me now?” the kid almost laughs.

Luke examines him critically. He's barely holding himself straight - the effort not to show pain starkly visible in the tightness across his shoulders - and he wants to stand out the rest of the night waiting for someone to stop for him? In Orange County?

“What, you think the next guy to come along in his Jag is gonna pick _you_ up? The only ride you'll be getting is in a cop car if you don't come with me.”

“So you wanna take me to the bus station,” the kid repeats flatly. His head is cocked to one side, eyes fixed on Luke's face and the scrutiny makes him uncomfortable.

“I want you out of this town and out of my life,” he says, “I want you gone where nobody will look for you so Marissa can forget about you. I want you disappeared.”

Luke expects anger, but what he gets is a small nod of assent, as if finally he's on the same page. “Fine,” the kid deadpans, “but you're buying the ticket.”

Luke snorts. “My dad's like a millionaire, I think I spring fifty bucks.”  And that's that; transaction complete.

Not another word is spoken until they're in the truck and headed back to Newport. The kid stares blindly out of the window as Luke drives, watching the distant horizon where black ocean meets black sky. “Why do you cheat on her?” he asks suddenly.

The audacity of the question taking Luke by surprise and he glances over sharply, but words close up in his throat when he finds the kid staring at _him_ now instead. It's none of the bitch's business, he thinks, gripping the wheel harder. And it's not cheating, not really. Marissa doesn't want to put out yet, Luke gets that. So he has his needs met by other girls in the meantime. And once Marissa's ready then he'll stop. He doesn't have anything to feel guilty about.

“I didn't bring you along for the conversation,” he snaps, concentrating hard on the road in front of him as it unrolls beneath the headlamps' glare. There's silence again, although Luke can feel the kid's eyes on him. It's fucking abnormal, the way the kid just _looks_ at people. “Are you gonna be able to get a bus ticket looking like that?” Luke asks, needing to deflect that unnatural attention. It's been too dark to see the kid's face but Luke can remember how hard he hit him, and his knuckles are puffing red in front of him as he drives. He is well aware of how much damage he can cause. It's a matter of pride.

“That's not my problem,” the kid responds, sounding bored. He waits another beat before he adds, “And I told you – you're the one buying the ticket.”

Luke starts nodding before his mind catches up with the words. “What?” he exclaims, tempted to put the brakes on and kick this guy's ass a second time. “I'm not doing your dirty work for you, punk.”

“Why not? You turning chicken?”

Definitely kicking his ass. “Say that again and I swear to God I'll stop the truck right now.” He hears a snort of amusement and when he looks over the kid is smirking widely. It's then that Luke realises what he just said, and he's glad that the streetlamps are few and far between now, to hide the flaming colour in his cheeks. He did _not_ just turn into his mother.

“You think if I walk in there looking like this at this time of night and try to buy a one-way ticket out of state, that someone isn't going to get suspicious?” the kid points out.

Luke says nothing as he pulls into the Greyhound station, past the rank where a bus is idling, lights flickering on down the aisle.

Destination: Las Vegas.

“Okay,” Luke says, grudgingly admitting the logic as he cuts the engine, “so what's the plan?” He turns round to find the kid looking straight past him. In the brightly lit parking lot the bruises are prominent. The black eye from last night swallows almost half of the kid's face, and the other cheek is beginning to tinge purple-green, like oil on water.

Regret rears its ugly head again.

The kid tears his eyes away from the bus and reaches down into the footwell. His jaw tightens into a grimace as he tugs the bag up and tosses it into Luke's lap. “Go in and ask for a return ticket to Vegas, open for a week. If they ask you've got a relative just gone into hospital and you're going to visit. That explains the time. You got your ID? Coz they won't sell you a ticket across state lines unless you can prove you're fifteen.”

Luke nods. The kid is a damn quick thinker, he has to give him that. That must be why he was so quick to latch onto Marissa. A beautiful, naïve little rich girl; the perfect mark. “Why a return?” Luke demands, letting the anger back in again. If this kid thinks that Luke is going to give him an all-expenses-paid round trip . . .

The kid cocks his head to one side and gives Luke a look. One that says he's just asked the stupidest question since Eve asked Adam if he wanted fruit salad for dessert. “What, you aren't planning on coming back after 'Aunt Mabel' buys it?” the kid snarks.

Once again Luke's cheeks heat up in embarrassment. He has the distinct feeling that the kid is running the show now. And it pisses him off that he can't figure out how that happened. But maybe he can live with that as long as the kid is leaving. “Fine,” Luke snarls as he gets out of the truck, “but you'd better still be here when I get back. And so had my truck,” he adds, before he slams the door.

Luke feels painfully awkward as he slings the kid's bag over one shoulder and heads into the terminal. At the counter he recites all the lies the kid told him to and hands over cash. The woman might not remember the name on his ID, but a credit card trail is not a bright idea. And by the time he's holding the ticket in his hand, awkwardness has evolved into guilt. Is he really doing this? Is he really paying for a kid to skip town? There must be hundreds of made-for-TV movies about the kind of things which happen to runaways. Prostitution and drugs and all that stuff.

The ticket is snatched out of his hand.

The kid is out of the truck now, holding a half-smoked cigarette in one hand. He tears out the return portion of the ticket and hands it back to Luke. “You might wanna burn that,” he says. He reaches out for his bag, still over Luke's shoulder and gives it a short yank, waiting until Luke relinquishes control so that he can slip the strap carefully over his own shoulder. Then he turns round and walks toward the bus.

Luke looks down at the ticket, then back up to kid's retreating figure, noting the almost limp and the way his arm hovers over his stomach. Can he really do this? Does he really hate the kid that much? A foster home somewhere else, or Juvie maybe, but can he really live with sending this kid out alone with nothing but a small backpack full of clothes?

Does he hate the kid _that_ much?

The kid takes a long drag on the cigarette and then tosses the butt. White smoke puffs out by the kid's head as Luke watches the orange glow bounce across the sidewalk and into a patch of gravel which surrounds the trunk of an anorexic tree.

Luke wants the kid gone. For himself, for Marissa, he needs the kid gone. He's from Chino, he can take care of himself.

The bus doors unfold, sealing tightly. Luke can see the kid in the bright interior, squashed right up to one side of the seat, head leaning on the window. The kid against the world, alone. It's hardly a fair fight.

_Does_ he hate the kid that much?

And Luke is still stood there, guilt-ridden, undecided, when the bus pulls away.


End file.
